


A Dangerous Line

by DirtyEffinHippy



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Confessions, Light Angst, M/M, Mistakes, Misunderstanding, Oneshot, cullen x dorian - Freeform, drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-18 19:17:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8172916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DirtyEffinHippy/pseuds/DirtyEffinHippy
Summary: Dorian knew he was in trouble. Everyone knows a good story starts with a bottle of alcohol. Apparently, so do the bad ones.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys! A little bit of a lengthy one shot of my OTP, Dorian Pavus and Cullen Rutherford. I can't get enough! I am planning on writing a NSFW epilogue to this >:) 
> 
> Enjoy! And please, please, please, leave your comments and kudos if you enjoyed my story! I am in a horrendous writing funk and could definitely use the feedback if you liked it! Kudos and comments make me so incredibly happy, I can't even explain <3 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> You can find me on my Dragon Age Page on Facebook at: Lavellan's Thedas!  
> And Instagram and Tumblr are both: DirtyEffinHippy

Dorian knew he was in trouble.

Every day, he felt that invisible line. That line that warns a person to tread lightly. That line that warns of dangerous territory. How very like Dorian to see that line and dash his way right through it.

It began innocently enough. A pariah can only withstand the boredom of solidarity for so long before madness tempts the adventurous spirit.

The books that held his attention now sat forgotten on their small shelving. The wine thoroughly emptied, and the arm chair requisitioned now gathering dust.

A bit of danger always thrilled the rebellious mage. Mouthing off to authority when he knew silence would prove to be the wiser choice, flirting with the man that held a dangerous steel glinting in challenge, joining a cause in the south where his kind was hated for an insurmountable history. Yes. Danger always danced seductively with Dorian. A dance he knew well.

A dance that has led to his current walk of shame throughout the ramparts of Skyhold, the bitter cold competing viscously with the hateful bile rising raptly within his throat.

The Commander, it would seem, did not appreciate the dance as he did. After weeks, months, of friendly enough banter, blushing cheeks, and side glances – Dorian finally crossed that line he knew so intimately.

All good stories start with a bottle of alcohol. It would seem that all bad stories do as well.

A night like any other. The Chargers hollering above the humming noise of the tavern, the Bull’s booming laughter overtaking even their celebration. Sera’s snickering and crude jokes, Varric’s captivating tales to anyone that was willing to listen (sometimes even unwilling). Sometimes the illusive Hawke would make an appearance as of late, but aside from that – the night was as it always was. The usual guests occupying their habitual haunts within the shabby haven of alcohol and bad decisions.

The Commander, ‘call me Cullen’, resumed his normal seat next to the mage near the Charger’s corner – the usual mug of ale cradled between calloused palms. Rylen close by while Cassandra also made a rare appearance. Laughter and easy distraction filtered between present company; recounting Dorian’s earlier chess victory (he did not cheat, he swears!), mundane complaints about reports and other droll nonsense, stories of recruit shenanigans – all in all, not a bad night spent.

Until the Bull.

That bastard.

In an attempt to draw Cassandra from her natural solemnness, the Bull took on the challenge to entertain by the horns. All involved were coerced into drinking copious amounts of that filth he claimed was a ‘good drink’. Lies. Dorian felt as though his throat were trying to crawl up and out of his body in an attempt at a safe escape.

Never mind that one pull of that blighted drink would make someone forget their own mother. It was in that forgetfulness that the inner blighted little bugger within Dorian’s head started whispering sweet challenges in his mind. Whispers of wants and desires that would do well to remain buried. Many of which concerning a certain fair-haired Templar that continued to grace Dorian’s presence with a humour and wit that never ceased to surprise the mage.

That line again. That dangerous line.

Another pull from a mug seemed to only grow larger every time it appeared.

Another string of Tevene curses as the familiar burn overtakes all senses. 

Another wave of pleasant dizziness and unburdened weightlessness.

Another whisper that won’t shut the hell up.

A loud bark of laughter interrupted the mage’s drunken moment of euphoria. He looked to his left to see a rare sight indeed. Cullen, with his head tipped back and his eyes crinkled as he laughed with abandon, looking wholly plastered out of his damned mind.

 _How careless_ , the mage thought to himself. The Commander never let himself lose control like this, always reserved with polite conversation at a moderate volume, never more than just the one cup of ale. Dorian could admit that the sight was well worth whatever hangover this evening’s festivities should incur.

All eyes in immediate company were on the blonde as he continued to laugh at one of those ridiculous stories that Dalish, the “not a mage” mage, recalled with a rough flourish.

His cheeks were reddened with drink, Dorian noted with a small smile. His eyes clouded and with a face that appeared 10 years the junior when in the throes of laughter.

Dorian fancied this side of the Commander, this side was an absolute delight.

Before he knew it, he was corralled into the reckless laughing alongside the former Templar. Loud guffawing sounds erupted from his vocal chords even as he made a move to tame his mustache. A good drunken stupor was no excuse to look sloppy, you see.

“I have t…” Cullen started in between great peels of giddy laughter, “t-to …”

“For the love of the Maker, man, get it together!” Dorian playfully prodded, only to send the blonde into another fit of giggles.

“To piss! That’s it! I have to piss. ‘Scuse me, Cassie. Oh, casssssiiiieee.”

Looking towards the Seeker, Dorian could see the mild look of amusement warring with her discomfort of being the only responsibly sober one in the bunch.

“You would do well to take care of your business quickly, Commander” she replied, inserting a certain level of pointed forcefulness when using Cullen’s title.

This only made Dorian laugh harder.

“Up you go, you mess, you” he said, wobbling as he struggled for balance before hooking the blonde’s arm over his shoulders to heft him up. “There we are! Be a dear and do try not to mussy up my hair, would you? Let’s go take care of that little problem you have before we have a bit of a mess on our hands.”

A whooping holler from Bull and a snicker from Varric rose above the conversational noises and Dorian led the Commander outside of the Tavern and around the back for a private wall to defile with his piss.

A few grunts, curses, and giggles later, and Cullen righted his trousers before turning around to face him.

“All done? And I didn’t even have to hold it for you, I’m so proud Commander” Dorian said playfully, adding a wink for good measure.

“I can p… piss for myself, Dorian” Cullen replied back messily to the other man, a smile as bright as the moon upon his face.

Those damn whispers again. Louder and more focused now that Dorian walked around and got his blood moving.

Cullen moved to sling his arm back around Dorian’s shoulder, presumably to make their way back to the Tavern, when suddenly the ex-Templar was shoved rather violently back into the rough stone wall by a pair of caramel hands littered with distracting rings and purpose.

Before Cullen could right himself from being manhandled against the rough surface, Dorian smashed his lips against the blonde’s.

Dorian couldn’t help himself. The whispers, you see.

His lips were greedy in their claim on Cullen’s mouth. In his drunkenness he could not tell if the other man responded to his efforts, but the lack of a fist to the jaw was all of the encouragement he needed.

A leg made its way in between Cullen’s thighs, a knee ground up into the other man’s manhood. Dorian’s grip moved from clutching the blonde’s shoulders to grasp tightly within those luscious sun-coloured curls.

When Dorian’s tongue plundered within the other man’s mouth is when Cullen reacted.

The mage felt himself shoved backwards, nearly tripping due to the unexpected momentum. A look into the other man’s face sent the high of arousal crashing down like a bucket of ice water.

The Commander’s face held fury only mildly muted by the swill that filled their bellies.

“What in the Maker’s name are you doing?!” He demanded, eyes eerily focused on the mage in spite of the intoxication.

“If you have to ask, my dear Commander, I am apparently not “doing” it well.”

A flare for sarcasm, that was Dorian. One could always count on at least that when everything turns to shit. His grin may seem mischievous but in his mind he saw weeks of careful layers of friendship being ripped to shreds before his very eyes.

“Andraste’s ass … I … I can’t do this now. Just … get away from me” Cullen demanded, fueled enough by the situation to turn and stomp away as if he were not a slobbering drunken mess only a few moments ago.

Dorian watched as the other man angrily made his way across the courtyard. Away from the tavern and away from him.

The sound of a door in need of a new hinge broke his concentration from watching the fleeting figure to see the Bull round the corner. He too seemed sober. Was Dorian the only bloody bastard still struggling to come to terms with reality?

“Everything ok, big guy?” the Qunari asked eying the mage with an eerily watchful eye.

“And why wouldn’t it be, you oaf? Just making friends, you see. It really is hard not to love me.”

Even to his drunken ears, Dorian knew his flippant remark sounded hollow … distracted, with a hint of panic.

Bull took one look at where Cullen had been only a few moments ago and turned his one-eyed gaze back to the mage, no doubt taking note of the wet sheen on the Vint’s plumped, freshly kissed lips.

That Bull, he was nothing if not astute.

“Getting late, hey Vint? Why don’t you call it a night, see how you feel in the morning?”

It was a question. At least, it was meant to sound like one. Underneath the simple words Dorian heard the command. ‘Go back to bed, sleep it off before you do something stupid.’ Not a bad command, that. Too bad it didn’t come a few minutes earlier.

“Ah. Of course. I do need my beauty sleep, after all. Not like you would know anything about that.” Another wink. Another joke meant to distract.

The Qunari knew and let it pass, giving a small chuckle out of politeness before he turned and made his way back to his Chargers and the rest of the band of misfits.

The air was cold, demanding, and unjustly seeping into the very fabric of his clothing. His steps were slow and calculated. The mage was in no rush to return to his quarters, yet having no other viable option.

Aimlessly he wandered beneath the moonlight. He took note of the soldiers that had their late night watches, the drunkards, and the night owls. He took note, yes, but he didn’t really care – did not truly see anyone as he replayed the evening’s events over and over in his head.

 _Stupid_ , he thought to himself.

 _So fucking stupid_.

After what seemed like an eternity of endless moseying, the mage finally found his pitiful excuse of a bed and flopped down upon it unceremoniously after shedding the last of his clothing. The air was too cold to sleep sans evening clothes, but he did not care. He welcomed the bite – it sharpened his mind against the haze.

The mage laid in his bed thinking the most obscure thoughts.

 _I have not been to my little nook in quite a while, at least a week’s time. I wonder if Leliana’s birds missed having me there to shit on my head._  

_Where did that green coat disappear to that Felix loved so much?_

_How did the Inquisitor manage to avoid punching every Orlesian in the face that haunts the halls of Skyhold?_

_Do Antivans like sweets?_

_What in the blights name made me kiss that man? Have I gone mad?_

_He does have quite the arse though._

The stream of never ending queries and nonsensical commentary drifted off at some point before dawn. The mage eventually drifted off into a dead sleep.

Little did he know how different tomorrow’s events would be in their little domain of Skyhold.

* * *

 

The new day arrived much sooner than Dorian would have liked. The dreadful drink of evening’s past sat heavy in his belly making his tongue swollen in his mouth and his throat desperate for a tall glass of water. Perhaps even a pastry.

He prepared himself as usual, immaculate care in everything he did to prepare for the day. Hair groomed to perfection, oils applied and thoroughly soaked into his skin, his armor donned, and mask of haughty indifference fully in place.

His chin held high, he made his way towards the familiar corner he carved for himself in this fortress – he made his way through the memorized corners of the path that he knew all too well since settling down after the events at Haven.

Distracted.

He was distracted. The rebellious mage with a penchant for destroying imaginary lines was 'distracted'.

So distracted, in fact, that he missed the incredulous look of the Commander that he briskly walked past as if he did not see the blonde man.

Because he didn’t.

He didn’t see him.

He also did not see the hand coming towards him. Fast.

Before he knew it, Dorian was thrust into the dusty red chair with a loud ‘oomph’ glaring up at the ex-templar sporting an equally impressive glare.

“We need to talk” came the rough demand.

“Oh, and pray tell, Commander, what shall the topic of conversation be this lovely day, hm?”

“Cut the shit, Dorian. What were you thinking?”

Mildly taken aback by the brashness of the Commander’s words, he sat in silence, the glare momentarily dampened by his confusion.

“You may need to clarify, silly me hasn’t a clue to what you could possibly be upset with.” A long shot, he knew but Dorian was hoping that perhaps the guise of drunken forgetfulness might buy him some time. He hadn’t the faintest idea on what Cullen wanted him to say.

“You,” the blonde shoved a finger in his direction pregnant with accusation, “you, you KISSED me. In public.”

“Ah, so should I kiss you in private then, hm? Is that the issue?”

The blush that ignited that fair skin would have been deliciously hilarious any other time. Not this time, however. No, definitely not this time.

“That is not the issue and you know it.”

“Of course,” Dorian replied airily, “my mistake, won’t happen again Commander.”

The blonde’s face collapsed into one of utter confusion

“Is that all? I am so terribly busy pretending to read this dreadfully dull literature you southerners insist on hording.”

The Commander’s face settled into the safety of neutrality, gaze flirting of the edge of hardness.

“That will be all.”

Dorian couldn’t help but to scoff at that, but he made no move to stop the ‘Lion of Skyhold’ either way. The rest of the night continued in quiet solitude surrounding by books he’d already combed through and wine that suddenly tasted like ash.

* * *

 

The next week carried on in a more normal, albeit slightly awkward, routine as Dorian awaited orders from their illustrious Inquisitor. The bustle of Skyhold much the same: nobles thumbing their noses at everything under the sun, refuges pouring in from all entrances, and the rest of the Inquisition’s ‘Inner Circle’ doing their best to find some semblance of calm before whatever else should come their way.

Dorian has yet to speak further with the Commander. Askance gazes here and there but nothing of importance. Sure, he saw the blonde oaf training in the fields with his troubles and he may or may not have let his focus a little longer than necessary admiring the other man’s form. In more ways than one.

Try as he might, he could not will away the feel of the other man’s lips. They tasted almost as strongly as his regret from letting himself be swept away in abandon.

Eventually, however, Dorian grew tired of the game – He was going to resolve this one way or another. Tonight. No Templar was going to make him feel like he had to walk around as if the grounds were littered with broken glass needing to be avoided at all cost.

Once the final stream of people left the dining hall after supper rations, Dorian equipped himself with his warmest cloak and a bottle of wine before making his way past the elf’s rotunda of “art” towards his goal – towards Cullen’s office.

There were no scouts posted outside of his door, which was odd. It seemed there was always at least one lackey about sniffling and drooling all over the Commander’s boots. One in particular, Jim … Dorian visibly shuddered at the thought of that hopeless fool.

He raised one hand about to knock at the impressive door separating him from Cullen when a sound caused him to freeze. He strained his ears to the surface trying to clarify the noise he heard. It sounded like a sob, but that couldn’t be right.

After a moment of silence stretched on for an uncomfortable minute, he heard another, definitely louder sound: the sound of a fist smashing into the hard surface of what Dorian could only assume was his desk.

Gathering himself, safety smirk firmly in place, he opened the door in a grandeur fashion only to be stopped in his tracks at the sight before him.

Within the office bordering on freezing sat the Commander with his hair an absolute mess, papers scattered in every which direction – but what truly drew the mage’s gaze was the look of complete desolation in the other man’s eyes as he stared down at a tiny wooden box.

A curious gaze that aimed a little closer at its contents revealed a small amount of lyrium and some sort of medical device accompanying it.

“You …” came Cullen’s raspy voice, so quiet Dorian could have easily missed it.

The blonde cleared his voice and looked up at the mage, his eyes rimmed with red and sweat hugging every inch of skin visible.

“You smell like it. Like lyrium …” he tailored off, looking down as if the Commander’s words brought him shame.

His immediate instinct was to laugh and make a quip about how he smells of only the finest soaps but he stopped himself just in time. It took Dorian but a single moment before quite a few things shifted into place at once bringing with said shift a wave of newly alighted understanding. Withdrawal. It must be, he’s seen it a thousand and one times in the Imperium.

Though admittedly he did not know of all of the practices involved with the Southern’s take on what it means to be a Templar, he had heard enough from the whispers around Skyhold that lyrium was an intricate part of what it means to wear the title. True that the Lion no longer wore such a title any longer instead replacing it with a much more impressive rank, that did not mean that the use of that little blue vice ceased. From the whispers, Templars never really “stopped” being Templars, they simply continued going through the motions until the abuse of the substance destroyed their minds or their bodies – whichever came first. Death or madness – what a cheery bunch Southerners were.  

The implication of his thought process stopped Dorian cold, causing a wide arc of questions to arise.

“Cullen …” the mage started, donning a very authentic face of concern with a very real intent on getting to the bottom of this.

“… have you stopped taking lyrium?”

The blonde let out an impressive sigh which seemed to be coerced from every inch of that tortured body of his.

Dorian’s first and only warning was the muscles in Cullen’s shoulders tightening before he picked up the box of offending liquid and hurled it past the mage’s head, its contents splintering off into a hundred little pieces upon impact.

He did his best not to flinch, instead he focused his gaze onto the Commander as he patiently waiting for an answer.

It seemed that once the blonde realised that Dorian was waiting for him, that he finally came back to himself and began to pace behind his desk.

“This stays here, Dorian. I – I can’t have my men thinking any less of me.”

A soft chuckle escaped his lips before he could stop it when he responded gently, “I highly doubt that there is much that could cause anyone to think less of you, much less the men who look up to you. I can’t imagine the list of offenses would be very long.”

It must have been the wrong thing to say because he saw the Commander visibly wince at his attempt at levity.

“You don’t know that, you don’t know who I am. Who I was.”

Well this was certainly new territory.

“Who you were hardly matters, hm? You seem like a fine man to me, and clearly I am far from alone in that sentiment otherwise you would not be here.”

The blasted man snorted, actually snorted. An ironic sort of noise, no humour could possibly be mistaken in such a small sound.

“I … “

A deep breath as the Commander seemed to gather any will at all.

“I can’t do this Dorian. You, you smell like it! The temptation is there every time I am near you. The lyrium, I can hear it – I can smell it. I am not strong enough for this, I was a fool to ever think I was.”

“Slow down, Cullen, and talk to me. This is all rather a surprise. Can you tell me why you stopped taking it? The lyrium? Surely you know the risks, you seem to be feeling most of them.”

“I can’t – I can’t be leashed like a dog any longer, blinded by the chains that pull and pull and keep fucking pulling.”

Dorian’s eyes widened at the sudden outburst but drifted closer to seat himself on the edge of the havoc that was the Commander’s desk regardless. A patient ear, that was the only thing he could do really.

“No leashes – not an unreasonable request, if you were to ask me” he responded because it seemed as though Cullen was waiting for some form of a reaction.

The mage could see Cullen’s knuckles whiten as he clenched his fists as he leaned heavily on the rather barren bookshelf. Dorian could not deny that his concerns were growing at a rapid rate. He wanted to help, recent embarrassments aside.

“Talk to me, Cullen … it’s only me here and surely you risk no judgement from an _evil Tevinter pariah_ , I believe there is an expression regarding that concerning a pot and the ever fashionable colour black, hm?”

The man looked back at Dorian and the mage offered a small smile of encouragement.

Cullen closed his eyes and visibly calmed his breathing and turned himself back around to the face the mage. He suddenly looked so much more tired than he had previously. Worn. The man looked awful.

Dorian indicated towards the Commander’s chair as a silent request for him to sit down and then Dorian did the same effectively taking out two glasses to pour the wine he had brought with him. Liquid courage seemed like just the right thing at this moment and Dorian was very generous in how much wine filled the other man’s glass.

Cullen took it and took a large gulp, making no indication of displeasure as the liquid worked its magic. It was a special bottle that the Inquisitor himself gifted to Dorian. Now seemed the perfect time to break it open. Laetificat*.

The blonde started from the beginning. From his youthful dreaminess towards the order, the fateful events that led up to his capture and torment in Kinloch Hold. Even his time in Kirkwall was laid bare for Dorian to witness. By the end of the tale, the twisted dance of hopefulness, to betrayal, to ultimate redemption; Cullen looked defeated. A man awaiting the executioner’s axe.

The Tevinter knew that as a mage he should be appalled, even frightened of the man in front of him but these past few months have shown a man that does not match up with this … this past Cullen. The two, he had a hard time reconciling the two images. The man in front of him has paid for his misgivings. For his crimes. The man in front of him was a _good_ man and he’d be damned if he couldn’t let the lummox see that.

“May I come closer?” he asked Cullen, not wanting to assume or overstep any boundaries the Commander may have. Especially with his … his ‘smell.’

Cullen looked up, a look of slight surprise on his face as he gave a dumb nod indicating that it was ok.

Dorian stood up with none of his usual flourish and made his way around the desk to kneel in front of the blonde. He looked up and hoped that his face reflected all of the understanding that he felt.

“I’m going to touch you now.”

Slowly, as to give the other man the time needed to pull away or declare his rejections, he reached up and placed his warm palms on either side of Cullen’s cheeks, gently cradling the man in between them.

“You listen to me,” he started softly, “you are good. You are strong and incredibly loyal. You’ve given more of yourself to this cause than any man here and you keep giving. You inspire loyalty and compassion and strength. Your chess game could use some work but that is neither here nor there,” Dorian smiled for good measure to show that he was simply teasing.

“You are a victim of the worst of my kind, something no person should have to endure be it mage or non-mage. This Chantry of yours, this order, gave no shits about you before reassigning you knowing that you were not yet healed. That is not your fault. You did what you thought was right, you followed orders. But you did something that bad men never would, you realised your mistakes and you set to atone for them immediately upon their dark revelation. That does not make you a bad man, that makes you a Maker-damned paragon, you fool.”

He stood up, maintaining eye contact.

“My homeland aside, have you ever looked at me as ‘less than human’?”

The question lacked accusation, it served merely to make a point.

“No, never. An ass, maybe. Pompous, sure …” Cullen trailed off, the barest hints of a smirk painting his lips.

Dorian let out a breath he did not realise he was holding, eyes glinting in realisation that the worst of this particular storm has been weathered.

“If it helps, there is a benefit to having an Evil Vint in your midst” he offered, eyebrow cocked pointedly.

Cullen continued to look at him expectedly awaiting further explanation.

“As you may well know, my people are not exactly known for their restraint. This leads to a lot of young men and women ‘proving their worth’ by abusing lyrium as if it were an afternoon snack meant to be taken with their tea. This also means that my spoiled countrymen have long since found a way to counteract the long-lasting effects of lyrium – can’t have half of the Imperium going mad or dying in the streets over who could drink the largest pint of the ‘blue stuff’, can we?”

He could tell that Cullen was working hard to keep the hopeful expression off of his face. The poor fool wouldn’t last a day in Tevinter the way his face tells everything. No wonder he often lost his breeches in Wicked Grace.

“Use me, Cullen – I can have the Inquisitor order all of the ingredients I would need to make you the potion. You would only need to take it for a few weeks to purge your body of any residual lyrium. Aside from headaches and tiredness the first week, there are no harsh repercussions to the cleanse. It’s all rather normal – I know, shocking considering where it came from. Let me help you, it is the least I can do after my … blunder the other night.”

The other man groaned, reaching back to grip the back of his neck in an all too familiar gesture, “Maker’s breath….” He mumbled.

“I. I should apologise for my behavior that night. I reacted harshly and continued to react harshly the following day and you did not deserve that.”

And there lies the largest shocker of them all, this evening was just full of them it would seem.

“Last I checked, Commander, it was my aggression that forced you against a cold wall, not the other way around. No need to apologise to me, I completely understand that your … tastes … lie in the fairer sex. Silly of me to assume otherwise and rather rude the way I approached it. Would you allow me the pass of blaming it all on drink?”

He tried for a joke, but it fell flat.

Cullen stood and faced Dorian properly, his gaze intent despite the slight blush flirting with his pale cheeks.

“That night I can only assume you noticed how uncharacteristically carried away with the tavern’s best I got that night. Maker, it seems like everyone else did. I needed it – I loathe the thought of relying on drink to absolve any problems but that night was … bad, to say the least. The nightmares were cresting into unbearable and I could hardly see two feet in front of me from the pain. I nearly gave in that night prior to meeting at the tavern. To the lyrium, I mean. I was so close to just one more taste that I all but fled to meet with the largest mug of ale I could find. When you, uh … kissed me, I was surprised. I had thought once or twice about the intentions behind your flirtations but you flirt more than the Bull so I had just assumed it was all in jest. When you kissed me, Maker, I was relieved. I’ve thought about it. More than I’d really care to admit but that night – you caught me so by surprise that it just blew past every defense I had. And when you, uh” he coughed awkwardly, “when the kiss deepened, the smell of lyrium was overpowering. I could TASTE it on you. It was dangerously intoxicating and it terrified me. And the fact that you were completely unaware of your effect on me was infuriating. And yes, looking back, I realise that was unfair of me. Unfair to put that on you, you couldn’t have known. I didn’t want you to.”

Dorian tried very hard, very, very hard to hear past “I was relieved” and he did, for the most part, focus on the important parts. The lyrium, the danger … yadda, yadda, yadda – but he couldn’t deny that his mind latched onto one particular part of the other man’s explanation: Cullen WANTED him to kiss him. He WANTED to kiss Dorian. What?

“What?” he responded dumbly. Smooth, Dorian.

The blonde’s blush deepened as he looked at every possible direction but Dorian.

Finally, after what seemed like eternity, the Commander slowly made his way towards him – careful movements, measured. Controlled. Closer and closer until they were close enough to, well, kiss.

Right before their lips met, the door flew open as a green scout made his way through the door. _Dammit, Jim!_

“Er, excuse me serah, Our Lady Spymaster sent for me to deliever this message.”

The poor sod could barely spit out the message and Dorian almost felt bad for him with the glare the Commander cast in the young boy’s direction.

“Out.” Cullen gritted out.

“Uh, y-yes, ser,” making no move to do so.

“Now!” The Commander all but growled out. Dorian laughed a bit as the scout all but fell out of the doorway to escape the wrath of the dreaded Commander of the Inquisition.

“Well, I suppo…omff!”

He was cut off by a kiss that was as fierce as it was surprising. A kiss that deepened quickly and made the kiss that night at the tavern look downright virginal.

After a few minutes of competitive petting and some indecently heavy breathing, the two parted in their need for actual air.

Dorian’s moustache was askew; he could feel it. Cullen’s hair was a mess from his fingers and his pale complexion beet red and eyes with a newfound glaze to them.

“Well then, we should apologise more often, _Commander.”_ The smirk on the mage’s face was contagious as he found that Cullen wore a very similar one. It only grew as he reached back out with a hand to pull Dorian back in,

“Come here, you” he growled into the mage’s mouth.

Yes. Dorian knew he was in trouble. Only this time, he couldn’t find a single care in the world. In this moment, only the two of them existed. The rest of the world could wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Translation: Laetificat* means "Cheers" in latin
> 
> Comments and kudos are SUPER welcome and appreciated! <3


End file.
